than tempting to some of the handsome but lazy young men. But good as this was, the poor young widow had one handicap that so far she had been unable to overcome. You see, she was an epileptic. The tohungas had come from far and near but still no cure had they found. One day Uncle Hemi had told her about Pastor Elliot's treatment of a sick child. She had begged and pleaded with him to speak about her illness to the good man. After making Bella promise to attend some Bible studies, he agreed to speak to him. Uncle Hemi was more than pleased at the way things were going. The thought that Bella might become a new convert made him ever so happy, for Bella possessed an excellent sporano voice and at one time she had helped to teach Sunday School. After Pastor Elliot had examined her soundly, he gave her some new tables which he had recently secured from Australia. These she used with great success. However, after a time she missed a few Bible meetings and from what we heard she was slipping back into her old ways once more. My, but wasn't Uncle Hemi up in the air about this. He declared that he would tell Bella in no uncertain manner about her wanton ways, and spent a whole morning looking up texts in the old family Bible that would more than make her shake in her shoes, or gumboots, or whatever she happened to be wearing at the time. The next Sunday after this dawned bright and clear. The sun lazed its way into the blue, cloud-quilted sky. For the first time, Pastor Elliot's new converts had decided to make use of the white-washed church which my ancestors had lovingly built as their temple to Christianity. The cemetery, with its marble and elaborately carved wooden tombstones and its quaint poetically worded epitaphs, bore testimony to the faith of every family in Rangiheke. Standing on a small hill overlooking the valley, it was surrounded by flowering shrubs that bloomed the year round. In the spring-time the whole cemetery was a beautiful floral carpet of millions of freezias of every colour imaginable. The air at night and in the early morning was heavy with their fragrant scent. Right at the far end was the old part, with graves of the unfortunate victims of the Spanish flu that swept the world after the 1914–1918 war. Outside the vestry door grew a very tall stately cabbage tree and from its lower branches hung a rope to which was tied a bell. Sometimes at night, if the rope had not been securely knotted, the wind would play tag with the long rope. Then into the night would ring the tolling of the bell, bringing fear into the hearts of the young ones and sorrow to the old. It was a ‘tohu’ or a sign that something bad would happen and all would be silent. This whare karakia was so situated that the first sleepy rays of the early sun warmed the resting-place of the tangata mate, and at eventide the fading sunlight caressed the millions of plants that wove themselves into this picturesque scene. Now towards this place of worship we made our way at about 10.30 a.m. There was Bella, her head covered in a gay scarf, and her four children, spick and span in their Sunday best. Trudging slowly behind was her father, whom she had managed to bribe into coming. There were Uncle Hemi, his wife, their daughter Rata, their youngest son Hoani, who was my age, and Rangi the sometimes simple one, whom I suspected of just doing this so that he could draw a social security pension. There were also Ruihi and the three youngsters, Whetumarama and six of her mokopunas. Altogether there were four adults accompanied by their families, Pastor Elliot, and two Pakeha church brethren with their wives from town. As we neared the church house, I had a funny feeling of danger if I could term it that. I thought of how the rest of the kids around would tease me when I went to the store tomorrow. They would laugh at me for going to church, instead of fishing for her-rings like they did on Sundays—well that was what they were expected to do, but I knew the fishing was an excuse to get away from their elders and smoke and kiss the young girls amongst the clumps of wiwi and raupo bushes. Looking ahead I saw Uncle Hemi carrying his old black Bible, that belonged to my great-great-grandparents. That gave me courage. Surely this must have been how the Children of Israel felt as they marched out of Egypt. I got the feeling of pride that the older people had, or seemed to have by the way they talked. ‘Why, it's so long since this church has been in use, it's a damn mockery to the good Lord.’ ‘I feel just like a missionary in the wilds of Africa,’ said the widow Bella. ‘Yes, yes’, spoke up Aunty, with a look I'm sure she hoped was pious, ‘when these bells ring they will sound all over the valley.’ At the church gate there stood a group of old people dressed in long coloured robes like the ones the priests wear. I glanced around,